Chapter 1
It was Saturday night at the bathhouse. Just after nine. I strutted into the locker room, stretching my long arms behind my back to ease the soreness from my workout. I'd just finished an aggressive round of arm curls in the little on-site gym.
Nobody else used the gym. Guys liked to joke that it was haunted. I'll admit, it did have a creepy vibe. There was just one flickering fluorescent bulb that lit up four mirrored walls. The main attraction was a weight bench in the center of the room, and in a shadowy corner stood a rickety elliptical. Sometimes I braved it if I was feeling particularly ambitious. The set-up wasn't much to work with, but it did serve two important purposes:
One, it got my blood flowing. I always felt invigorated after a workout. And two—this is the part that really mattered—it got me all sweaty, which allowed me to make a big production of peeling off my clothes.
I opened the candy red door to my locker and put my shoes and socks inside. Eyes were already on me. I could feel them waiting for my next move. Off came my ribbed white athletic shirt, so sticky and wet that it clung to my skin as I lifted it over my head. I paused for dramatic effect, showing off the cave of my armpits. Now I really had their attention, but I played it cool. Innocent. Just a guy getting undressed. Nothing to see here.
Next came my shorts. I slid them down, feeling the slippery black polyester fabric drag against the blond curls of my legs. I bent over just enough to spread open and give my admirers a peek. Now we were down to the jockstrap. White cotton, classic woven pouch, with a three-inch thick waistband. It was a style that conjured nostalgic locker room memories for the Daddy-types.
"Looking good, Ty," a voice said from behind me.First catch of the day.
I turned around to find a perky young guy with pastel colored hair. He wore only a white towel, wrapped around his thin waist.
"Oh, thanks," I said, feigning modesty.
"I saw the new yoga video you posted today. It was so hot. I loved the way you looked in that downward facing dog position."
"I appreciate that. Have you been practicing along with me?"
He looked away. "Nah, I probably should. I just like to watch." He folded his arms but met my gaze again. "So, uh, congrats on hitting a hundred-thousand subscribers."
"Thanks. Yeah, it's been amazing to see my channel grow. I'm trying to mix it up more. A little cardio here, resistance training there. Something for everyone."
"You make it look so easy." He looked me up and down, then his eyes settled on the bulge of my jock.
"Well, thanks for being a fan." I smiled and stood proudly, shifting my weight to one hip, letting him take all of me in. When I'd had enough, I said, "I think I'm gonna go hit the showers."
The young guy's eyes met mine again and his cheeks flushed red. "Oh, right. Okay. It was good talking to you, Ty."
"You too. Have a good evening."
He wandered off, giving me one last shy smile before he disappeared. He was nice enough but too young. Plus, I never settled on the first man I talked to.
It used to creep me out that guys knew my name and who I was as soon as they saw me, but I'd grown to love the attention. It was part of my routine now.
I leaned forward to pull down my jockstrap, feeling relief as the fabric peeled away from my sweaty nut sack.
"Goddamn, that must smell delicious," a low baritone voice said from the locker next to me.
I closed my locker door to find a guy who looked like he might be in his early sixties, with brassy red hair cut in a military burr style, a tan-colored bowling shirt, and olive-colored slacks.
I offered him my jockstrap. "Here, take it as a souvenir."
"Really?"
"Of course. Enjoy it."
"Thanks, Ty." He collected his gift and wiped it along his nose, inhaling the scent of my body. "Even better than I imagined," he confirmed with a satisfied moan.
I wrapped a fresh towel around my waist and headed to the showers. My nostrils burned from the stench of industrial strength bleach wafting in the air. Bathhouses always smell like a potpourri of bleach, cum, sweat, and asscrack. It's an aroma that both revolts and arouses. You get used to it, but it lingers in the back of your throat long after you've gone home.
The place wasn't too busy yet. Things usually didn't get rowdy until after ten, when men started pouring in from the nearby bar, loaded with liquid courage. I'd been a regular at the bathhouse for a few years, so I knew the routine.
From September through May, it was mostly the same crowd, week after week, although things did get busier during the holidays and spring break. But now that it was June, there would probably be some tasty new prospects: college students on break, barely legal twinks getting their first taste of freedom, tourists who were just in town for the weekend. I loved the unpredictability of summertime.
The shower area was your basic open corridor design with a row of shower heads on each side. There were no partitions for privacy. The bathhouse was not a place for modesty. Thankfully the toilets on the other end of the room did have doors so at least patrons could do a discreet finger check without an audience.